


love slipped beyond your reaches

by angejolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, I woke up and chose violence, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angejolras/pseuds/angejolras
Summary: He’s happy for her. Really, he is. With his help, she managed to get out of an abusive relationship in their mid-twenties, and now, after having crossed over into their thirties, after several years of dead-end relationships with women who were too detached or men who simply didn’t care, she’s found herself a man she can see herself spending the rest of her life with.The fact that it’s not him shouldn’t bother Enjolras as much as it does. It’s all his own damn fault anyway. Spending years pining for someone isn’t going to make them magically fall in love with him, not when he’s never made his feelings known. He’s had to learn that the hard way.He can’t shake the constant feeling that everybody around him is moving on while he’s frozen in time.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	love slipped beyond your reaches

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day. heh. have some angst 🖤
> 
> for those of you who were wondering, no, i have not abandoned inthaf!! the words are just.... taking their time in coming to me, i suppose. i hope i'll have the next chapter up by the end of march, at least. although school is pretty hectic right now, so no promises.
> 
> ~~this may or may not be my totally, completely chill reaction to a certain someone's recent engagement in fic format. who's to say. except i would absolutely be selfish enough to interrupt a wedding. anyway i will not be discussing it any further!! thank u~~
> 
> this fic is sponsored by quarantine masterpieces folklore/evermore (but mostly evermore). (for legal reasons, that was a joke.) so yes, the taylor swift references peppered in here are 100% intentional. i'm really on that fucking sad girl shit, huh?
> 
> anyone who can guess my faceclaim for éponine's fiancé/husband gets a cookie!! (not literally, but i wish i could give you all my trademark snickerdoodles for real :( we will have to make do with virtual cookies)

For what feels like the millionth time, Enjolras straightens out his tie, although he’s not sure if it could be any straighter than it already is at the moment. Uncertainty washes over him, waves crashing against the shore. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to face the day.

He runs a hand through his blond curls, the sunlight streaming in through the window making it gleam gold. The man he sees in the mirror is ostensibly him, but a flash of doubt overcomes him every now and then. It’s only grown more frequent as this day drew closer.

Navy-blue suit, a tie just a few shades paler, red pocket square. A pair of black leather Oxfords to complete the look. Éponine had picked out his ensemble. To this day, he’s still not sure if the blue colour really suits him, but she’d insisted it does. Well, it corresponds with his general demeanour right now, anyway.

His throat tightens. Éponine. He wonders where she’s wandered off to. Likely the bathroom, he thinks after a few moments of consideration.

As if on cue, he hears the door open behind him. He turns around just in time to see her walk in, something different about the way she holds herself, and his breath catches.

Her dark chestnut-brown hair has been done up in an elaborate updo, accentuated by a silver floral hairpiece along with matching earrings, delicate tendrils of hair framing her face. Long sleeves and sweetheart bodice overlaid with lace, chiffon skirt tapering off into a chapel train, the white providing a lovely contrast against her olive skin. And then of course there’s the ring on her finger.

She approaches him, her steps rather hesitant but a dimpled smile lighting up her face all the same. “Hi,” she murmurs.

“You…” He clears his throat. _Get yourself together, Enjolras. Sweet Jesus._ “You look beautiful.”

She bites her lip, twisting the ring around her finger. “You really think so?”

“Yes,” he replies, almost a little too quickly. He forces his lips into a smile. “Not that my opinion matters much.”

“Oh, shut up.” She reaches out to smack his chest, and a surge of electricity jolts through him at the contact. “Of course it does.”

She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind him then, seemingly for the first time. There’s a slight hitch in her breath. “Do you think Theo will like it?” she asks, her voice hardly above a whisper.

The lump in his throat feels like it’s tripled in size since she entered. “He’d be a fool not to.”

He’s happy for her. Really, he is. With his help, she managed to get out of an abusive relationship in their mid-twenties, and now, after having crossed over into their thirties, after several years of dead-end relationships with women who were too detached or men who simply didn’t care, she’s found herself a man she can see herself spending the rest of her life with.

The fact that it’s not him shouldn’t bother Enjolras as much as it does. It’s all his own damn fault anyway. Spending years pining for someone isn’t going to make them magically fall in love with him, not when he’s never made his feelings known. He’s had to learn that the hard way.

He can’t shake the constant feeling that everybody around him is moving on while he’s frozen in time.

Éponine’s brow furrows at his silence. “You okay there?”

He jumps a bit, startled. A rapid nod. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just looked a bit jittery there.” She laughs then, low and wry. “And _I’m_ the one getting married.” She sneaks a glance at herself in the mirror again. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

He swallows, lips pressed into a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, it is.” He holds out his arm, unable to help himself. “Let’s go get you married, shall we?”

She laughs, a much more genuine giggle this time, and places her hand in the crook of the arm he offers her. “Lead the way.”

* * *

_The sight of her wearing his clothes as she sits on his couch wrapped in a fuzzy blanket watching anime on Netflix should not be as endearing as it is, Enjolras thinks as he watches her from the kitchen. Should she happen to look at him at that very moment, a truly pathetic sight would greet her, with that goofy smile on his face and traces of fondness in those blue eyes usually so piercing and formidable._

_He goes to sit next to her, a bowl of warm mac and cheese in his hands. Without a moment’s hesitation, she takes it from him and begins to dig in, much to his amusement._

_“Who said that was for you?” he says. She freezes in place._

_“Oh, it wasn’t…?” She hands it back to him so quickly one would have thought she’d been burned, brown eyes wide as they meet his blue. “I’m so sorry, I—”_

_“No, no, I was joking,” he hastily clarifies, handing the bowl back to her. She visibly relaxes, so much he can practically see the tension leave her body. A soft smile graces his lips, his hand reaching out to tuck some stray hairs behind her ear. “You’re safe here, ’Ponine. You know that, right?”_

_She bites her lip. “Yeah, I know,” she murmurs. “It’s just… old habits die hard, you know?”_

_“I know.” He takes her hand, rubbing circles into her palm. “But I’m here for you every step of the way. I_ promise _.”_

_A corner of her mouth turns upwards in the slightest hint of a smile. Her next words come out in a whisper. “Thank you, Enjolras.”_

_She returns her gaze to the television, entirely focused on whatever it is she’s watching now and growing oblivious to the world around her. He takes the opportunity to gaze at her, whatever attempts he might have made to remain discreet flying out the window. This girl, who’s been through so much shit in so little time but somehow survived. He remembers how long it took for her to even admit she was in an abusive relationship in the first place. He’d had to watch from the sidelines as she put up with her boyfriend’s constant lashing out and verbal attacks, citing the times during which he’s nice to her as proof he really does love her._

_Well, she’s out now. Montparnasse nearly killed her, quite literally, over it, but she’s out._

_Having had nowhere else to go, she’s taken to staying at Enjolras’ place in his guest room at his insistence. She’s been here for a couple of weeks now, consciously avoiding the outside world._

_“So what are you planning to do now?” he asks her. At the sound of his voice, she looks up, still chewing on a mouthful of macaroni. It’s even cuter than he’d ever care to admit, coupled with how she looks as if she’s drowning in his hoodie, it’s so big on her._

_She ponders it for a few moments, then shrugs. “Do you think you could…” She trails off, a self-deprecating huff of a laugh escaping her lungs. “No, never mind.”_

_“Do you think I could what?” he prompts._

_She opens her mouth, but hesitates. After a moment’s silence, she mumbles, “Do you think you could… I don’t know, help me get a restraining order against him or something? You know, since you’re a lawyer now and all. If it’s not too much trouble.”_

_“Of course it’s not, ’Ponine.” He smiles, really smiles, and the way her face lights up could honestly put the sun to shame. “Anything you need.”_

_He watches the way her dimples carve themselves into her cheeks when she smiles. He asks then, his voice gentle, “Do you know where you’re going to go after this?”_

_His question gives her a moment of pause, and he can see it on her face as she realises she has nowhere to go. Her sister lives with a friend, her brother has been living with Grantaire since he got himself emancipated. And up until two weeks ago, she’d been living with Montparnasse._

_“Move in with me,” Enjolras says, thoughtless, impulsive. The words slipped out as if of their own accord, and the incredulous look she gives him in response is almost enough to make him regret it._

_Almost, but not quite._

_She laughs, disbelieving. “Move in here? With you?”_

_“We’ve been friends for nearly seven years now, haven’t we?” Despite what he’s sure is a very red blush on his cheeks, his mouth keeps moving anyway. “I’ll talk to the landlady about putting you on the lease. You could stay here as long as you want, or at least until you find your own place.” His two-bedroom Cornelia Street apartment isn’t much, but it’s home._

_Silence falls between them as she considers his offer, the sounds of the TV fading to little more than white noise in the background. And then—_

_“Alright, then.” She beams at him, bright and wide, and it knocks the breath out of his lungs for a few seconds there. “I guess I live here now.”_

_A broad smile breaks out across his face, broader than it’s ever been before. “Well, then, welcome home.”_

* * *

It’s beginning to aggravate Enjolras, the pitying looks Courfeyrac keeps shooting his way in what he seems to believe is a discreet manner as they usher guests to their seats. Cosette’s taken over looking after Éponine until all the guests are seated, making sure everything’s perfect, everything’s in place. Once he’s finished seating everyone in the section he’s been assigned, he makes his way back up the aisle. Courfeyrac joins him shortly thereafter.

“It’s not too late,” he whispers to Enjolras, rising up on his toes a little bit to do so. Enjolras sighs.

“I told you to lay off it, Courf,” he mutters.

He steals a glance over his shoulder, instantly zeroing in on Éponine being fussed over by Cosette and Musichetta, and to a lesser extent, Azelma. He feels that same strange tightening sensation in his throat at the sight.

Courfeyrac follows his gaze, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. “She looks gorgeous, doesn’t she?”

A corner of Enjolras’ mouth turns upwards. It’s a feeble attempt at a smile. “Yes. She does.”

They turn their gazes back to the altar up front, where Éponine’s fiancé—her soon-to-be husband, Enjolras realises with a start—stands with his best man, fidgeting and constantly glancing at his watch. Theodore Alexandre Baudelaire, with his warm brown eyes and curly, close-cropped black hair. He’s got dimples like Éponine does. Enjolras can’t help but think about how ironic it is that they share a middle name.

Courfeyrac looks up, casts a sidelong glance at Enjolras. “Wish it was you, don’t you?”

Enjolras presses his lips into a thin, tight line. “I thought I told you to _lay off it_ , Courf.”

“Jesus, fine, I will.” With a roll of his eyes, Courfeyrac crosses his arms across his chest just as Éponine approaches them from behind. Sensing her presence, Enjolras turns around.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, concern clouding her features. He notices panic beginning to settle in those brown eyes and rushes to reassure her.

“No, everything’s going swimmingly,” he promises, reaching out to pat her shoulder but changing his mind at the last second. “We have ten minutes left before the ceremony.”

“Oh.” Éponine bites her lip, sparing a brief glance at the guests in their seats. “Oh, okay, then.”

“Are you nervous?” Enjolras asks gently.

She looks up to meet his gaze. “Obviously. Wouldn’t you be?”

He thinks he would.

Time seems to go by too fast and too slowly, and before any of them know it, it’s time for the ceremony to begin. It’s all Enjolras can do to suck it up and hold his head high when it’s his turn to walk down the aisle before Éponine does.

With each step he takes, he can feel his heart split further and further apart.

By the time he’s reached the altar and taken his spot next to where the bride will be, it’s completely torn in half.

* * *

_“So,” Enjolras manages to say despite the growing lump in his throat, “how was your date?”_

_Éponine tears her gaze away from the swirls of red, orange, pink drifting through the sky as the sun sinks lower and lower on the horizon to look at him. The faint sounds of jazz music carries through the night from the café down the street, pedestrian conversation and car engine hums below filling in the gaps. The evening is cooler than usual even for springtime, a light breeze making the hairs on the backs of their necks stand up on end as they sit out on the fire escape eating the Panda Express takeout he’d picked up for them on his way home._

_Her lips form a contented little smile and she leans back against the brick, returning her gaze to the heavens above and catching the first glimpses of the moon kissing the stars hello. “It was great!” She laughs softly to herself, almost like she can’t quite believe it. “It was really great. I really think this one could turn out to be something more.”_

_As she goes on, her words are like a knife to his heart, but he smiles anyway, reminding himself over and over that he’s happy for her, he is, it’s what she deserves after a lifetime of such heartache and mistreatment. “So when does your roommate get to meet this mysterious boyfriend of yours?” he questions in spite of himself._

_She laughs, that laugh he so longs to hear more often and be the cause of. “Soon, I promise.” A hand slips into her pocket and she takes out her phone, pulling up a photograph to show him. “Here’s a picture of him.”_

_It must be from when Éponine went on that Central Park date with him a month or so ago, Enjolras thinks, taking note of the snow-sprinkled green behind him and the hot dog in his hand. The man smiles broadly at the camera, dimples visible in his cheeks, and if anything, his noticeable laugh lines only serve to make him look more attractive, the barest hint of a five o’clock shadow visible along his jaw. A black curl sticks out from under his beanie, a scarf tucked into his fur-lined coat. There’s a bit of an ethnic look about him, much like Éponine herself. Enjolras wonders where he’s from._

_“Theodore,” she supplies._

_His lips twitch slightly. Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Like the chipmunk?”_

_She rolls her eyes and smacks his arm with a huff, but laughter dances in her eyes in the glow of the sunset. “You know, that is_ exactly _what Grantaire said too. You two are so annoying.” She takes her phone back from him. He tries to ignore how her gaze lingers on the picture. “I call him Theo. He’s a doctor. I think he works at the same hospital ’Ferre is doing his residency at, actually.”_

_“A doctor, huh? Impressive.” It comes out rather monotonous, but he really does mean it. Or at least he wants to._

_“You wouldn’t expect him to be because of the doctor thing, but he’s jacked. Like,_ ridiculously _so. It’s like, do they have a gym at his disposal in the hospital or something?” Another laugh as she tucks her phone away again and looks up to meet his eyes, their food forgotten on the wrought iron. “You don’t think he’s too old for me or whatever?”_

_His eyebrows knit at that, rather mystified. “What do you mean?”_

_“Well, he’s forty,” she says with a shrug. “Turning forty-one this September.”_

_“_ Really? _” He almost wants to ask to see the picture again, but he resists temptation. “He does_ not _look like it.”_

 _She laughs, bowing her head and glancing at the street below. “Yeah, I know, right?” A smile plays at her lips, a sigh escaping her. “Gavroche thinks he’s too old for me, but he thinks_ we’re _old, so Theo’s probably practically ancient to him.”_

_“You’re twenty-nine,” he points out. “An almost twelve-year age gap doesn’t really mean much at our age.” He forces himself to go on, attempting to lighten the mood by quipping, “And besides, he’s probably got his shit together far more than we do, anyway, at his age. So I’d see that as a plus.”_

_She laughs almost involuntarily, giving him an odd yet fond look. Another sigh falls from her lips, and there’s something almost wistful about it as she looks back up again and stares off into space, making Enjolras wonder what it is she sees. “I think he could really be the one,” she murmurs, a bit of a tremor to her voice. Like she’s afraid of saying it out loud for fear of jinxing it. “I don’t know.” She turns her head to look at him, a melancholy smile on her lips. “What do you think?”_

_The question catches him off-guard. What does_ he _think? What does he_ think _? How the hell is he supposed to answer that when it’s a question that pertains to the budding relationship of the woman he’s been one-sidedly in love with for what feels like (and in all honesty, probably has been) ages now?_

_She arches an eyebrow at his prolonged silence, and his mouth goes dry. The words nearly die on the tip of his tongue._

_“Who cares what I think?” He laughs, higher and more nervous than usual, and all he can do is hope she doesn’t notice it. “As long as you’re happy.”_

_She smiles, teeth digging into her bottom lip just so. “Really?”_

_“Yes, really.” He so desperately wants to reach out, place his hand over hers, to give it a squeeze and tell her it’s all going to work out in the end._ She’s got a boyfriend, _he reminds himself, no matter how painful it is to do so. “That’s all I want for you, ’Ponine. For you to be happy.”_

_Even if it’s not with him._

_He’ll find a way to be okay with that, eventually. It might take him a week, a month, a year, ten years, maybe a lifetime. But he will be, one day._

_He has to be._

* * *

Enjolras ignores the disparaging looks he keeps receiving from a couple of the groomsmen, who are clearly not the biggest fans of the bride’s unorthodox decision to have a co-ed bridal party. Éponine must at least tolerate them, though, if Theo still kept them as his groomsmen. The rest of the bridal party walk down the aisle one by one and then Marius and Cosette’s four-year-old daughter Camille is skipping down tossing flower petals with abandon, and soon, too soon, the guests rise to their feet.

Before he can stop and count his blessings, reassure himself that everything will be okay, Éponine appears at the end of the aisle on her brother’s arm, and his mind goes completely blank.

She’s a sight to behold, everyone’s heads turning to see the beautiful bride in all her glory, and for a split second, Enjolras allows himself a moment of delusion just long enough to imagine that she’s walking down the aisle to him rather than the man standing a mere six feet away from him. Éponine smiles, but it’s not directed at him.

Enjolras steals a discreet sideways glance at Theo, and he’s not quite prepared for the utter love and adoration he sees written all over the man’s face, hardly able to believe he’s lucky enough to be marrying this incredible woman. His heart breaks just a little more. He’s not sure if he would be able to give that to Éponine even if he tried. And as far as he’s concerned, she deserves the world. The entire universe, if he could give it to her.

Éponine hands her bouquet off to Cosette before turning to face the officiant along with Theo, and Enjolras can’t help but tune out the officiant’s words as he drones on and on and on. He’s much too focused on the colossal weight that’s settled in his chest, growing heavier by the moment.

He senses a sting behind his eyes and rapidly blinks, refusing to let himself lose his composure for even the fraction of a second. It’s considerably more difficult than he ever imagined. With each word spoken, she slips further and further away from him.

He ends up disregarding the bride and groom entirely and takes to staring at his feet.

* * *

_“Look, I know I’m not, like, a paragon of self-love or whatever,” Grantaire says as he lugs another of the boxes into the U-Haul Enjolras has rented for the day, “but even I can tell you are seriously fucking yourself over with whatever the fuck it is going on between you and Ép. Either you’re turning into a masochist, or you’re an even bigger simp than I thought.”_

_The unamused look Enjolras gives him borders on a glare, and he slams down the next box he’s lifted into the truck with more force than intended. “I am not a_ simp _,” he mutters, nearly spitting out that last word in disdain. “She’s my best friend, why shouldn’t I be supportive of her? Despite what you may think, I really do have no ulterior motives. And I’m surprised you even know what ‘paragon’ means.”_

_Grantaire snorts and flashes him a grin. “What can I say? I’m just full of surprises.”_

_Enjolras rolls his eyes and sighs, beginning to regret asking him to help him move out. But in his defence, most of their friends don’t have schedules as flexible as Grantaire’s, being a freelance artist, and seem to be busy anyway. Busy having lives of their own. “Theodore asked her to move in with him. What was I supposed to do, stop her?”_

_Grantaire clicks his tongue, pausing to set down the armchair he’s carrying and sigh dramatically, running a hand through his unruly black curls, blue eyes rather distant. “Seems awfully quick for them to be moving in together already is all I’m saying,” he remarks. “They just met, what, three months ago?”_

_“Whatever feels right for them, I suppose.” Enjolras carries the last of the boxes into the truck and jumps back out, waiting for Grantaire to put that last armchair there so they can take off to his new place. So he can leave the Village behind._

_He leans back against the side of the truck, staring up at the building he used to call home. His modest Greenwich Village walk-up that, just a month ago, started to feel suffocatingly empty once it could no longer sense Éponine’s presence. Like it was too big for one person. It wasn’t long after she moved out that Enjolras started making arrangements to relocate himself. He doesn’t know if he could ever walk this street again. There are memories, far too many of them, in every corner, in each flickering streetlight. Too many of which include her._

_He almost doesn’t notice how Grantaire’s hopped back out the truck and latched the rear door shut until he’s standing next to him, the shorter man following his gaze to his old apartment. He hums to himself. “From here all the way to Morningside Heights,” he comments. His feigned nonchalance is so woefully transparent. “Careful, chief, someone might think you’re running away from something.”_

_Enjolras crosses his arms across his chest, a sort of defence mechanism. “Maybe I am,” he deadpans._

_“Yeah, okay.” Grantaire snorts again and turns his head to look at him, though Enjolras’ gaze remains firmly on the apartment building before them. “You know, we’re not so different, you and I. You have your law practice, and I have all these fucking markers.”_

_In spite of himself, Enjolras cracks a smile. “I’m not sure quoting John Mulaney is going to improve anything, but thank you for your efforts anyway.”_

_Grantaire laughs, really laughs, and pats his shoulder, straightening up to walk over to the front of the truck and call shotgun. “Alright, then,” he announces. “Time to go, methinks.” He turns back momentarily to glance at Enjolras, telling him, “But I swear if you get the aux and all you play is sad Taylor Swift songs on the way there, I’m gonna have no choice but to call everyone else and stage an intervention. I know you’re sad, but that’s just a whole new level of fucking pathetic.”_

_Enjolras rolls his eyes with a scoff. “Driver picks the music. You once said so yourself. Plug your ears if you’re going to be such a little bitch about it.”_

_Grantaire sticks his tongue out at him and hoists himself up into the passenger seat, throwing his feet up on the dash. Enjolras lets out a wry little laugh under his breath, wrinkling his nose at how the other man didn’t even bother to take off those grotesque Birkenstocks of his beforehand._

_As he goes to get into the driver’s seat, he steals one last glance over his shoulder at his old apartment building. The source of so many fond memories. They’re like knives in him now, piercing his skin little by little. It’s damn near impossible to bear._

_“Yeah.” Even to himself, he sounds like he’s miles away. “It’s time to go.”_

* * *

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

After what felt like an eternity in hell, it takes all of Enjolras’ remaining energy to plaster a smile on his face and applauds along with the rest of the guests as the happy couple before him seal their union with a kiss. It’s all he can do not to resort to one of the fifty-seven excuses to skip the reception he’s come up with over the course of the ceremony. He’s made it this far.

While the guests are being ushered into the ballroom where the reception is to be held, the bridal party mills about to take photographs, with the newlyweds standing front and centre. Enjolras’ attempts to lay low fall short, with the prominence of his role in the wedding. So he just grins and bears it, even if it’s completely tearing him apart inside.

He keeps his distance as they wait to enter the ballroom after the guests’ cocktail hour ends, engrossing himself in conversation with Combeferre and doing all he can to forget about the fact that Éponine Thénardier is now Éponine Baudelaire. Out of reach from him. Forever.

The speech he had to force himself to prepare for the reception is a heavy weight in his pocket, and more than once, he considers taking it out and ripping it to shreds. But putting himself on the spot during the reception seems like it would just be asking for trouble, particularly from the groom’s side.

Against his better judgement, he glances over at the bride and groom on the opposite side of the room, seeing how close together Éponine and Theo are standing as they engage in animated conversation with Azelma. There’s a gleam in Éponine’s eyes, something Enjolras has never seen until now. In all the time he’s known her, he’s never seen her as happy as she is now.

His gaze drifts over to Theo, and all he can think about is how much easier it would be if he just hated him. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Ever since Éponine first introduced him, he’s been nothing but unfailingly nice to him, almost unbearably so. He didn’t even question it when Éponine made the decision to include all her friends in her half of the bridal party regardless of gender. He’s everything Enjolras could only hope to be. He wonders if he’ll have his shit together the way Theo does when he’s forty-three.

The fact that, at thirty-two, he’s still hopelessly, miserably in love with his best friend who just got _married_ to someone else doesn’t exactly give him high hopes.

He feels as if he’s aged another ten years by the time they make their way into the ballroom, him with Combeferre and Courfeyrac by his side, and almost immediately, his eyes find the open bar. Combeferre follows his gaze and places a hand on his arm. A warning.

“Hey,” he reminds him gently, voice low, “no drinking before your speech, remember?”

Enjolras grits his teeth at the reminder, none too pleased. “I know.”

“We won’t stop you from drinking all the booze you want after,” Courfeyrac pipes up in his own attempt to be supportive. “If that’s any consolation.”

Enjolras cracks a smile as they take their seats at the table they’ve been assigned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

_The wind is beginning to pick up while snow starts drifting down faster than ever as Enjolras aimlessly strolls along the Central Park Mall, his dog a few steps ahead of him. Catching sight of a vacant bench, he goes to sit down and catch his breath, taking a few moments to brush off the blanket of snow that’s coated the seat overnight. He scratches under his dog’s chin when he dutifully sits before him, readjusting the sweater he’d wrestled him into prior to going out. Enjolras just adopted him from a shelter a few months back. A golden retriever Jehan so aptly dubbed Apollo when Enjolras texted a picture to the group chat to ask for name suggestions._

_At the sound of footsteps, he looks up to see Éponine approaching, hands tucked into her coat pockets and a shy smile on her face. He smiles back, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and pats the empty space next to him on the bench. She takes it as an invitation to sit down._

_For a while, neither of them say anything, the sounds of nature being the only thing keeping complete silence from falling between them. She lets loose a sigh, watching her breath come out in a puff before it evaporates into thin air mere moments later. He watches from the side as she takes her left hand out of her pocket to adjust her newsboy cap, and he almost can’t breathe at the sight of the ring wrapped around her fourth finger._

Say something, _he tells himself._ Something. **Anything.**

_“So, congratulations,” he says rather feebly despite feeling as if his jaw’s wired itself shut, his voice breaking through the quiet. It’s not news to him, not anymore—they’re a week into February and she posted about Theo’s proposal on Instagram on the very first day of the month. He’s had a week already to process it. Somehow he feels like he still hasn’t. Not entirely, at least._

_She looks up and a smile graces her lips, so bright. Turning her gaze to Apollo, she reaches to scratch under his chin, her smile growing wider at how he wags his tail. “Thank you,” she murmurs, dropping her hand and bowing her head. “You know he proposed on Bow Bridge? Not that far from here.”_

_Enjolras manages a close-lipped smile. “Yes, I saw.”_

_“Oh, yeah.” She laughs rather self-deprecatingly to herself. “It came so out of nowhere. I mean, we’d discussed getting married before, but I didn’t expect him to propose so soon after we had that discussion.”_

_God, no. Please. Anything but this. He doesn’t think he can take another word of her going further into detail about her engagement and everything that led up to it. The universe can’t possibly hate him that much._

_By whatever miracle, she doesn’t go on further, but her next words catch him off-guard. A request._

_“Will you be my man of honour?”_

_He turns his head to look at her, hands absently fiddling with the end of Apollo’s leash as an incredulous look crosses his face. “What would Theodore think of that?” he questions, lightening his tone of voice in an attempt to pass it off as a joke. He thinks he’s only half-successful._

_She smiles, shrugging. “I talked it over with him. Of course he’s fine with it, why wouldn’t he be?”_

_Right. Of course he is. “I…” His gaze trails downwards to the hands in her lap, and the clear view of her ring just feels like a punch in the gut. An absolutely enormous, brilliant blue cushion-cut sapphire set into a thin diamond-paved band. He catches himself wondering just how much money Theo spent on it._

_Enjolras swallows, regaining his composure. “Wouldn’t you rather have your sister in the role?”_

_“She’s busy with her nurse practitioner stuff. You know.” She turns her gaze up to the barren treetops, watching as snow catches in the branches. “I already talked to her about it. I don’t think she’d be too thrilled about having to help plan a wedding on top of everything else going on in her life.”_

_“Right. Of course.” So not only is he going to have to watch the woman he loves slip through his fingers forever and marry someone else, he’s going to be right there next to her when it happens. His next words spill out of his mouth before he even knows they are. “Well, then, of course I’ll be your man of honour.”_

_Maybe Grantaire had been right when he theorised he was beginning to develop some masochistic tendencies._

_Éponine beams, and for a second there, Enjolras almost deludes himself into thinking she might kiss him. Instead, she throws her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace as Apollo lets out a bark. “Oh, thank you so much!” she exclaims in delight, hugging him so tight he thinks she’ll squeeze all the breath out of his lungs. “I promise I won’t go bridezilla on you or anything.”_

_He pats her back, and though she can’t see, he cracks a weak smile. He thinks it’s a bit too late for it to matter to him either way._

* * *

“So that was the last time I let Éponine take me out clubbing,” Enjolras finishes that particular anecdote from their college years, a corner of his mouth turning upwards in a slight smile at the laughter that ensues. “At least not without someone else present to babysit should things spiral out of control.”

“That someone else usually ended up being me,” Combeferre deadpans from his seat next to Enjolras. More laughter.

Enjolras waits for the laughter to die down before he folds up his speech and tucks it back in his pocket, the words written having been burned into the back of his mind already anyway. He inhales deeply, exhaling after counting to four.

_Come on. You’ve already gotten this far._

“Choosing the person you want to spend the rest of your life with…” He trails off, then continues. “It’s one of the most important decisions you could ever make in your life. Ever. You reach out and grab love wherever you can find it, and you hold on tightly and never let go. That takes effort. I think people underestimate just how much effort it takes to maintain a relationship. But I know that won’t be a problem for these two.”

He blinks back the tears starting to brim in his eyes, though even if one should slip down his cheek, he could simply make the excuse that the dizzying emotions of the day have started to overwhelm him. It wouldn’t be a lie. Not entirely.

“Éponine, you’re my best friend,” he says, putting all of his effort into the smile on his face, to distract from the pain in his eyes. “And I am so honoured to have known you for as long as I have, and that I got to watch you meet the man of your dreams and fall in love. You deserve every single happiness in the world. I can’t think of anyone more deserving of your love than Theodore here.”

A lump forms in his throat, and it’s all he can do to keep going. “All that matters is that you’re happy. You deserve someone who can make you happy. Really happy. Dancing-on-air happy. And I can’t think of anyone better than Theodore to do that for you. I can’t think of any couple more suited for each other, and I wish you a lifetime of love and happiness.” There’s the slightest crack to his voice on that last syllable, and without looking, he senses the concerned look Combeferre gives him. He chooses to ignore it and picks up the flute of champagne that, up until then, he’s left untouched, and raises it up.

“So if everyone could please join me in a toast,” he says, trying so hard to disguise the way his voice trembles, “to the bride and groom.”

“To the bride and groom!” everyone else echoes, raising their glasses in unison.

Enjolras sits back down almost immediately afterwards, wishing a hole would open up and swallow him whole. He downs his entire champagne flute in one go, ignoring the alarmed look Joly shoots his way from one table over. The dance floor opens for all shortly thereafter, and he takes the opportunity to slip away unnoticed to the bar and collapse into a stool.

He slouches down in his seat and takes his folded-up speech out of his pocket, unfolding it to read over the words he’s just barely crossed out. The words he’d wanted to really say, but couldn’t bring himself to. It wouldn’t be fair to Éponine. To anyone.

_There’s something about that experience, connecting with a stranger and falling recklessly in love, that simply goes unmatched. There’s nothing quite like it; it’s one of life’s greatest joys. And now that you’re married, you’ll never get to experience that again. It’s the price you pay for everlasting love. A small one, certainly. But I hope it stings a little._

“Barkeep?” he calls as best as he can over the thumping music, looking up when the bartender approaches. “I’m going to need the strongest shit you can give me, please.” He cracks a wry smile at the raised eyebrows the bartender gives him. “And keep them coming.”

* * *

_“It’s not too late,” Courfeyrac insists as he drags Enjolras over to where Combeferre is standing by a window, fidgeting with his cufflinks._

_At that, Enjolras’ brow furrows, and he shoots them both a questioning look. “Not too late for_ what _, exactly?”_

_Combeferre’s shrewd gaze bores into him, so much that it’s almost unnerving. “You know what we’re talking about, Enjolras.”_

_Enjolras shifts from one foot to the other. He does. Doesn’t mean he can’t deny that he does. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re referring to.”_

_Courfeyrac lets loose a long-suffering sigh, throwing his hands up into the air. “Think it’s too late to be playing dumb, Enj. Fuckin’ hell—your best friend, the_ love _of your_ life _is_ getting married _to someone else, and you’re just going to stand there and watch?”_

_“She’s well within her rights to marry anyone she wants.” His jaw is beginning to ache, he’s clenching it so hard. Enjolras swallows. “And Theodore makes her happy. That’s obvious enough.”_

_“You’ve been there for her through so much more, though,” Courfeyrac argues. “You helped her get out of her relationship with Montparnasse and then you went as far as to help her get a restraining order against him. Hell, she_ lived _with you for_ years _. And then she moved in with Theo after, like, three months of knowing him and he proposed after they’ve been together for barely a year. Who_ does _that?”_

_“People go through relationships at their own pace, I suppose,” Enjolras suggests wryly._

_Combeferre, ever so level-headed, jumps in with his proposal. “We’re just saying that if you want to, there’s still time to stop this. It’s not healthy, you know, to keep building up everyone around you at the cost of your own happiness.”_

_For a brief moment, Enjolras can see it all in his head. Stepping forward to object when the officiant asks those in attendance to speak now or forever hold their peace and asking Éponine to run away with him instead. Taking her hand and making their escape in what would have been the newlyweds’ getaway car. Driving on and on and on with no particular destination in mind, but neither of them minding as long as they have each other. Something right out of his wildest fantasies._

_But that’s all it is. A fantasy._

_Enjolras deflates, gaze drifting out the window at the city streets far below. The city that never sleeps. “I can’t,” he murmurs, voice bordering on inaudible. “I can’t do that to her. I can’t be the asshole who ruins what’s supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Not after everything she’s been through.” A lump forms in his throat, his voice cracking in spite of himself. “I_ can’t _.”_

_Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange a look, concern written all over their faces. Courfeyrac has just opened his mouth to speak when Enjolras beats him to it and says a bit too harshly, “And if any of you even think of objecting on my behalf, I am not exaggerating when I say I will never speak to you again.” He makes no attempt to disguise how the smile he gives them both is clearly fake, too wide, too toothy, but never quite reaching his eyes. “If you could spread the word to the others, that would be great.”_

_Courfeyrac presses his lips together in a tight line. The look in Enjolras’ piercing blue eyes informs him and Combeferre that his decision is final. There’ll be no talking him out of this now._

_He sighs. “Fine. If that’s what you want, then fine.” Despite everything in him warning him against it, he can’t help but snippily add, “Who are we to stop you from ruining your love life—or, really, your lack thereof—forever?”_

_“That’s_ enough _, Courf,” Combeferre scolds._

_Enjolras grimaces. “I do have one request, if it isn’t too much for you.”_

_Courfeyrac perks up as Combeferre turns his gaze back to him and asks, “What is it?”_

_“You know how I’m supposed to give a speech at the reception?” When the other two nod, Enjolras smiles rather ruefully, resigned to his fate. He’s made his bed. Now he has to lie in it._

_“Keep me away from the open bar until then.”_

* * *

The only thing that’s registering to Enjolras right now is that he’s drunk. Completely wasted off his ass. So thoroughly inebriated he can barely walk three steps without stumbling.

He may have taken this whole “drowning my sorrows” thing a bit too far.

One song ends and fades into another, this one more fast-paced and frantic, and just when he thinks he can slip out of the ballroom unnoticed, Éponine makes her way over to him as Theodore ropes his sister into a dance. It’s all Enjolras can do not to trip and fall onto her when she reaches him at the edge of the dance floor.

“Enjolras?” She reaches out to grab him by the arms and hold him steady, a smile that’s equal parts concern and amusement carving dimples into her cheeks. “You okay there?”

He does his best to straighten up, trying not to appear as plastered as he is. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so,” he mumbles, words rather slurred.

Éponine’s brow furrows and she leans in closer, as if to hear him better. “What was that?”

Enjolras clears his throat, gathering himself. “I think I should—I think I should leave,” he blurts out, raising his voice slightly for her to hear him over the blaring music.

Confusion crosses her face. “But the reception doesn’t end for another hour!”

Lord help him. The last thing he needs right now is another hour of this. “I think…” He leans in closer, reminiscent of someone about to reveal a shameful secret. “I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink. I really don’t—my head’s really starting to hurt, ’Ponine. I can’t—fuck—”

“Oh, well, in that case—” Éponine searches the room, eyes landing on Grantaire wandering past and seizing him by the arm. When he gives her a vaguely offended, quizzical look, she asks, “R, can you make sure Enjolras gets home safe? Think he’s had one drink too many.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows so high, they practically disappear into his hairline as he looks at Enjolras. “Wonder why?”

Enjolras glares at him, though Éponine seems to miss the implications in those two words and shoves Enjolras in his direction. “Please? For me? I don’t want him passing out drunk in an alleyway or something.”

Grantaire’s hand wraps around Enjolras’ forearm, and Enjolras can’t help but think about how Grantaire’s almost certainly had as many drinks as he has, if not more, yet he seems perfectly fine. It irritates him. “But we’ll miss the end of your reception,” Grantaire points out, ignoring how Enjolras seems to be attempting to bore holes into his skull with the glare he shoots his way. “You know, your grand exit and all that.”

“Eh. It’s not that big a deal, really.” Éponine smiles wanly. “Just get him home safe, okay? Text me when you have.”

“Okay, then.” Grantaire starts dragging Enjolras in the direction of the exit despite the other man’s initial resistance. “Alrighty, let’s go.”

The subway ride home is a bit of a blur. At such a late hour, there aren’t many people there, allowing Enjolras and Grantaire the luxury of an entire row of seats to themselves, and at some point, Enjolras thinks he slides down and his head lands in the other man’s lap. Well. What’s losing whatever was left of his dignity on top of everything else that’s happened tonight?

“Hey,” Enjolras mumbles at some point, struggling to keep his gaze on Grantaire’s crystal-blue eyes. Everything keeps going in and out of focus. “Am I dead?”

Grantaire gives him a half-hearted grin. “Nope,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Still alive and kicking, unfortunately.”

“Ugh.” Enjolras turns sideways and draws his knees up to his chest, having half a mind to flip off the man sitting across from them who keeps giving them strange looks. He’s just a grown-ass, six-foot, thirty-two-year-old man curling up on a subway seat with his head in his friend’s lap. Nothing to see here. He cracks a slight smile in spite of himself at the thought of how Joly would likely have an aneurysm upon seeing him lying on a subway seat in such a fashion without even bothering to wipe down the surface beforehand with disinfectant wipes.

Once they reach his apartment building, getting Enjolras upstairs in his state proves to be a bit of an ordeal, Grantaire nearly falling over each time Enjolras puts too much of his weight on him. “God, why are you so fucking _tall_?” he grumbles. “Can’t remember the last time you were this wasted, chief.”

“Good,” Enjolras says bluntly, nearly tripping on a step. Grantaire’s never really been one to complain about his height, unlike Courfeyrac, who has something of a Napoleon complex, but in that moment he curses his stature, being approximately three inches shorter than Enjolras. It’s sure making things a hell of a lot more difficult.

“You know, on any other night, it’d probably be you getting _my_ drunk ass home,” he comments. “Jesus, why do you always rent apartments in fucking walk-ups?”

“Mmf.” Enjolras slumps against the wall once they’ve reached his floor, nearly falling to the floor. It’s all Grantaire can do to drag him across the landing to his apartment door.

“Keys?” He holds his hand out expectantly, a single eyebrow raised.

Enjolras glowers at him. “I can do it myself. Thank you very much.” He digs around in his pocket for his apartment keys, struggling a bit with getting it in the lock. After several failed attempts, he finally gets the door open. He cheers a bit louder at that than he probably should have. Damn. He really _is_ hammered.

Grantaire steps into the apartment with him, flipping the light switch and observing his surroundings. “You sure you can take it from here?” he asks. It’s not like him to show such concern for his well-being, Enjolras thinks in slight amusement.

“I know where the bathroom is.” He gestures vaguely down the hall just as Apollo comes trotting up to him. “I’ll be fine. You can go. Bye bye!”

Grantaire gives him a weird look at his childish farewell. “Okay, then. Just—take care of yourself, okay?”

Enjolras cracks a feeble smile. “What makes you think I won’t?”

“Yeah. Okay. Take care, Enj.” And with that, Grantaire leaves the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

The moment it’s just him—well, him and Apollo, he supposes—the dam breaks, and Enjolras damn near collapses against the door, the tears streaming down his face as he slides down to the floor. He wraps his arms around Apollo when the golden retriever comes up to him and sits, shoulders shaking as he finally lets out everything he’s been holding back that entire day. With tears and snot streaking his face, he has no doubt he looks like a complete mess right now.

Funny how the happiest day of someone else’s life can be the worst day of his.

The woman he loves is forever out of his reach now. She’s moved on while he’s stuck right where she left him. This sort of shit happens every day, he reminds himself bitterly. He doesn’t have to fucking lose it.

But even still.

It’s not her fault. The blame lies solely on him, for never speaking up sooner about how he felt, for never taking that leap and seeing how things would go from there. Would have, could have, should have. No, he was just too much of a damn coward. Still, there’s some part of him—a tiny, twisted part—that longs to place some of the blame on her.

She’s left him no choice but to stay here forever.

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoyed this. or, at least, hope it made you feel as miserable as i am right now. (i'm sorry.)
> 
> kudos/comments are much appreciated, and you can find me over on tumblr [@bisexual-eponine](https://bisexual-eponine.tumblr.com/) for more secondhand embarrassment ❤️


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